Fluorescence and Late Night Snacks
by Cannibalistic Skittles
Summary: Nights at Arkham are usually uneventful. This is not much of an exception.


She doesn't yawn, but she'd like to, blinking bleary eyes as she walks along the hallway. It's much brighter in the break room, she reminds herself, a note and a warning both to the light that will soon force open her tired eyes.**  
**She's got her hands shoved in her pockets, mostly to avoid the trouble of figuring out what to do with her hands in this state – no need to wonder whether it's worth it to break policy and wave at any of the half dozen guards she passes.  
And that, of course, means she can be left in her thoughts.

In the distance, the clamor of still-conscious inmates (patients, she corrects, though she knows the insistent terminology makes no difference,) is reduced to dull, soft notes. Background notes in a symphony of soft footfalls and fluorescence.

She wouldn't even be here at this hour – let alone on her way to the break room, though that's more a matter of the gnawing hunger she can't placate with convenience store food today – but for the new patients.  
Their files, anyway.  
Three entirely new – a schizophrenic with an acute sense of paranoia, but likely treatable; one with DID, varied in personas, all of them a touch melodramatic; and one that's been bounced around for the entirety of his (currently three week) stay – adding to her 'normal' cases to a total of six.  
It's this last that she's most interested in. There's no official diagnosis yet, as he's driven most of his psychologists thus far to tears or hysterics only minutes into a session, which is why – still fairly new as she is at eight months, next week – Leland pushed _his_ file across her desk this evening along with all the others.

So, naturally, when the lights in the halls began to dim and the usual chatter trickled down to barely-audible whispers, Dr. Harleen Quinzel could sill be found, poring over every word, every detail given to her.  
(Staying past public hours at Arkham is not strictly forbidden, but is certainly discouraged.  
She has no true fear of anything within these walls.)

She intends to stay just long enough to feed her coins to the brightly painted eyesore of a vending machine and pick out whatever high-sugar, high-sodium product she could pay for with her… she runs her thumb over the change in her pocket. Whatever she could pick out with her seven quarters.

Her surroundings blink back into existence, her footsteps slow, and she begins to disentangle her thoughts. Her office, awkwardly situated, is still close enough that it's no real distance to here.

She pushes open the door with her hip, nodding to the guard at the end to the hall as she follows the path of the door. Her hair, loose, bobs in front of her eyes, and she thinks idly that she should cut it, or tie it back at least. The bun was getting a little old – would pigtails be too childish?  
So she's thinking of hairstyles and the files back in her office and maybe she does have enough to get the only _good_ kind of chips in the machine when she steps inside – and pauses.  
Silent but for the hum of too-bright fluorescent lights, she had not expected to see anyone else in here, let alone someone pressed, mostly still, to the vending machine, and _especially_ not the someone she sees now.  
She blinks once, twice, thinking to clear away any remnants of sleep clouding her eyes, though she already knows the view won't change. Thin and reedy, almost gangly beneath the coat, there's no mistaking the form of the _ever_-pleasant Doctor.  
Her voice is marked with mild skepticism and more than a little curiosity.  
"Jonathan?"

* * *

It would not be entirely untrue to say that the day could have turned out better for Dr. Jonathan Crane.  
Well, the last bit of it, anyway. It had all been going rather well up until his latest patient interfered – really, he supposes he should have known they would react as they did – and though he did not receive a _large_ dosage by any means, it was enough to cloud the senses and blur his perception.  
They'll have to be restrained the next time.

He, by necessity, was forced to cut the experiment short, injecting them with the (as of yet, experimental) antidote and wait until their screams were reduced to quiet whimpering and frantically rolling eyes before calling the guards.

(The antidote neutralizes the toxin itself, as quick-acting as the gas, but it does not, _cannot_, dispel the aftereffects. Good enough for leaving patients disoriented to the point where they believe that what they saw was their own fault, their own psychosis, his patient whispering broken syllables and putting up no fight as he is dragged away.  
It needs a little more testing. He's going to have to develop something better for himself, should he need it.)

He can make changes; he can perfect it; but first, he needs to deal with his own aftereffects.  
Painkillers, then, and something to eat to lessen the lingering effects of the toxin, if he can stomach it.

Of course, this _would_ come soon after the raiding of his cabinets.  
That they thought they could pilfer anything of worth from his office in full-view of no less than two surveillance cameras ranks only slightly lower on the ladder of idiocy than the apparent fact that they thought he would keep any of the "good stuff" anywhere _near_ line-of-sight – just further evidence as to the general ignorance of the guards. He curses whichever pillar of incompetence had the brilliant idea to hire this recent, brainless batch.  
So, barring the familiarity of his office, he knew – unfortunately – just where to go.

Which is why he is standing _here_ now, in the one place in Arkham he normally avoids like – well, like the breeding ground for unprompted social situations it is, rooting fruitlessly through his pockets for spare change.  
(Surly and ruffled as he appeared, he was not bothered on his way. Evidently, approaching him to discern the apparent cause for his irritation is deemed too dangerous - perhaps the only _intelligent_ course of action they have followed.)  
Fluorescent lights cast a sickly pall over the room; the hum does not help his headache, worming its way under its skin where it nestles, threading dull pain through him.  
The brand does not matter – any analgesic will do – and he's sure he has the coins for any of the tablets composing the lower row of the machine somewhere –

His headache is worsening. The pockets of his lab coat turn out only lint.  
He rests his head on the protective covering of the vending machine, pausing in his search for a moment, only a moment.  
"Jonathan?"  
– except that he is caught entirely unaware by the emergence of the new voice.  
No true sleep at all, but close enough, close enough to have left the mark of his forehead and a patch of white fogging up the glass.  
Close enough to be caught off guard.

Still, he does not jump; he does not whirl. Instead, his eyes blink open heavily and the once-searching hand slides from the pocket, hanging loosely at his side.  
"Dr. Quinzel," he responds, voice fringed with hoarseness. He does not need to raise his head to place the voice.  
And it _figures_ that it would be her. Any of the others would quietly excuse themselves and find someone else to be once they caught sight of them, but he's never _quite_ been able to dissuade the abnormally-cheerful blonde.

"Dr. Quinzel," he repeats, emphasizing each syllable. A _that-is-not-the-appropriate-name-to-call-me_ voice. "And what would you be doing here, at _this hour_?" A _kindly-vacate-the-area-immediately-as-I-want-nothing-more-to-do-with-you_ voice.  
No apologies from her, but an answer in a light, neutral voice. "I could ask the same of you."  
He bites back the childish '_I asked you first_' that sits ready on his tongue.  
"Staying late," is instead his terse response. If he lifts his head, tilts it back, he may appear to be scanning the lines of packaged food – that he's in no mood to talk, that he's _busy_, that he should be _left alone_.

The quiet click of heels against tile is evidence that this is not so, and soon she is standing not _quite_ beside him, but too near all the same.  
He purses his lips and pointedly does not turn.  
Her voice – bright, if tired – still sounds out. "The puddin' pound cakes aren't so bad."  
"Mh." Just because he can't dissuade her doesn't mean he has to actively encourage her.  
"Or the Daybright chips, if that's not for you."  
"_Mh_." He attempts to tune her out. She _will_ leave after failing to receive a response, won't she? …or perhaps not.  
He is exhausted, he is irritated, he is shaken from the effects of his fear toxin, and so he does not take note of how she draws ever nearer, how her voice grows just a touch more mirthful, ("If you're trying to get rid of my there are much quicker methods") until a cool hand rests against his forehead.  
"Geez, Jonny, you're burning up. No wonder you're looking flushed."  
He's feverish. A consequence not entirely unexpected, but unwelcome – as is _that_. He blinks heavily, mouth drawn down sharply, but she's darted back and around him before he can do something about it.  
"I believe I have asked you more than once _not_ to call me Jonny," he grinds out, though it sounds more than a little weary.

Now on the other side of him, she pushes in coins with three distinct plinks and offers him a cheery smile.  
"Oops. Slip of the tongue."  
Any apology the words might have contained are marred by the edge of smile. How this woman is ever taken the least bit seriously, he'll never know.  
He rubs at his temple, a frown building. "And just what are you doing?"  
"Really, Jonn—Doctor Crane," she corrects, though so slowly and deliberately he thinks she must be making a show of it. "I would have thought you'd be able to guess."  
"Well, seeing as I'm _not_…" Talking to this woman is like pulling teeth.  
She smiles, still, but… less so. "Thought you might've come here to get some painkillers." She shrugs a shoulder to motion down.  
Beneath the aches and mild dizziness is a pulse of pride, and the thought that his patient must be having a worse time in his own cell takes his mind off some of the discomforts. _Some_. He'd like to reply with something biting, but as he bends to retrieve this – painkillers, naturally – his vision swims disconcertingly. He settles for a noncommittal noise.  
Harley, for her part, suppresses any giggles she may or may not be inclined to.

Whatever ulterior motive she has, he can deal with it later.  
He swallows one dry; if the alternative is staying here to look for water and prolonging his time with her, he'd take the chances of a sore throat.

"You know," she says, "you might want to rethink that 'staying late' idea. …You're not looking so good."  
"Mh."  
She is still looking at him. Grudgingly, he asks, "was there... anything else?"  
"Now that you _men_tion it—" He thinks he sees her smile widen by a hair. "I thought, seeing as you've been here longer, you could... give some input on a few of these patients?"  
He can't tell if she's serious or not. "…some other time, perhaps." 'Perhaps' is not a promise; 'perhaps' can be delayed.

"Mmhmm." She nods, lips pressed tightly over a barely-contained grin. Before she's finished with her answer, but as she is offering an energetic half-wave, he is heading to the door, before she makes this headache even worse.  
"Sure thing. Seeya tomorrow, Doctor Crane."

* * *

Even as she lets her hand drop, she is grinning, already fishing out her coins and punching in numbers.  
How interesting.  
This may be the first time she'd been able to crack that thin veneer of politeness. She'll have to remember this.  
And, well, if he _does_ end up offering his opinion, so much the better.

…a moment later, when no brightly colored package is dispensed, she does break from her contemplation. The number, 1.00, blinks in red, waiting for further coins.  
She shoots the vending machine another glance. $1.75 reads the peeling label beneath. She's exactly three quarters short.  
Oh well.  
She can't really find it in herself to be disheartened.

* * *

So. First time writing for the category, and, of course, first time writing the characters. It was difficult to balance Harley's manic cheer with pre-Joker (and, admittedly, bits of Nolanverse) characterization. Crane is just hard to write, period.  
Still, though the characterization is obviously flawed, and though this was a mostly pointless excercise, I do hope I was able to do them justice. And… yep, that's mostly it.


End file.
